


Like the Weather

by lawless



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawless/pseuds/lawless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected storm aggravates John's bad shoulder. Sherlock helps set it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> John, Sherlock, and London weather. Written as gen, but can be read as pre-slash or slash if you’d rather.
> 
> Written in response to [this](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2348785.html?thread=26853361#t26853361) Make-Me-A-Monday request from April 25th. Beta reviewed by [](http://sunspot67.livejournal.com/profile)[**sunspot67**](http://sunspot67.livejournal.com/) and Brit-picked by [](http://evilchuckles.livejournal.com/profile)[**evilchuckles**](http://evilchuckles.livejournal.com/). The title is taken from the 10,000 Maniacs song of the same name, but other than the description of the weather, the song lyrics have nothing in particular to do with the story.

April weather in London is changeable. The 25th of April was a perfect example. One minute the weather was mild and sunny, the next it was drizzling and cold, and after that it poured.

John got caught without an umbrella on his way home from the surgery; by the time he left the Chinese takeaway around the corner from the flat, the rain was pelting down, forming rapidly flowing streams once it reached the pavement. He was grateful that the food was safely stowed away in a paper bag snuggled within a plastic one. He’d hate to see twenty quid worth of food go to waste because the bag gave way under the stress of the raindrops’ assault.

John swore when a gutter spout drenched him as he inserted his key in the lock. After everything that had happened, they were more careful about locking the front door now. He trudged wearily up the stairs, gripping the banister with one hand, his other hand clutching the takeaway bag.

As usual, the door to the sitting room was open. Sherlock sat reading in the armchair he’d claimed as his. John relaxed upon seeing Sherlock dressed, sitting upright, and absorbed in something as innocuous as reading. That meant he was in a good mood, or at least what passed as a good mood, and not likely to shoot at the wall or knock over the detritus piled in the sitting room in a snit.

“Hello,” John said. Sherlock looked up and nodded before he went back to reading his book.

John put the food down on the kitchen table and hung up his now-soaked jacket. He looked down at his trousers, splotched with raindrops and wet at the ankles; he had to change them before he ate or else he’d squirm uncomfortably throughout dinner.

“Going upstairs to change,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to the stairs. He thought he heard an acknowledging grunt.

When he returned a few minutes later after changing his clothes and toweling his hair dry, two plates and two mugs -- all their glasses were either broken or dirty -- had migrated from the kitchen to the table between the front windows. John felt around in the bag for chopsticks and fetched spoons, forks, and napkins. He’d been ambitious and bought soup. He hoped not to spill it on his lap; he’d had enough liquids on himself for one night.

Rain pounded on the pavement outside while they ate. Sherlock alternated between biting off hunks of dumpling and looking at his laptop. John slurped his soup. Once that was finished – thankfully, without any spills – he twirled his lo mein around his fork. He’d given the chopsticks to Sherlock, who sniffed about how much better Chinese food tasted using chopsticks because they were made of non-reactive wood. John thought, privately, that Sherlock was really more interested in showing off his prowess using chopsticks.

After dinner, John settled in on the sofa to watch crap telly. Sherlock returned to the armchair and his book. Sherlock seemed to tune out the TV, but every so often scathing remarks would interrupt John’s enjoyment of _Casualty_.

John found himself changing position often as the night wore on. He tried sitting up straight first, then stretched his legs out and later crooked them to the side in an attempt to get comfortable. It eventually dawned on him that his damnable shoulder was bothering him again. Not surprising, given the weather, but annoying nonetheless. He wedged the Union Jack pillow – the one he thought of as his -- between his shoulder and the back of the couch to relieve the ache, but it didn’t help much.

He thought about moving to the armchair, decided that was too much bother, and snagged the remote in order to turn the TV off. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him over the book.

“Did you want the TV?” John asked. He didn’t mean to sound as testy as he did, but he hadn’t expected Sherlock to mind.

“No,” Sherlock responded, looking down at his book again. A faint smile played around his lips. Sherlock had probably deduced something about him, such as that his shoulder was giving him grief. Well, why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t as though John was trying to hide it.

John stretched and yawned. This was mostly for Sherlock’s benefit. True, he _was_ tired -- returning home in the unexpected downpour had worn him down-- but he also didn’t want Sherlock worrying, making unwarranted assumptions, or commiserating with him. He was not an invalid, damn it.

He got up and said, “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Good night,” Sherlock said.

John gritted his teeth as he took the stairs. For some reason, his leg ached a little, too, so his footsteps were hesitant and uneven. He changed into an old t-shirt and pyjama bottoms before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash up. Once there, he realized that the packet of ibuprofen was downstairs. Sherlock had been experimenting to determine how quickly the tablets dissolved in water. When John had asked, Sherlock had mumbled something about long-term usage leading to bleeding ulcers.

Well, sod it all. He was arsed if he was going to bother going downstairs now. All he cared about now was getting in bed and stretching his limbs. He pulled back the covers and got into bed. After shifting position three times, he turned off the light and closed his eyes. He was tired and sore and could use a little sleep.

But the weariness he’d felt downstairs only added to the soreness he felt once he was in bed. His shoulder throbbed even though there was nothing poking or otherwise aggravating it. If he lay on his right side, the exposed shoulder throbbed with pain. If he lay on his left side, the pressure made his shoulder hurt more. On his back, all he could think about was the difference between his shoulders. Sleeping on his stomach was out of the question; he felt smothered that way.

He stared into the darkness for a long time before pounding the mattress with his fist. He debated turning the light back on, but what good would that do? He didn’t have anything to read, and he wasn’t sure he could focus well enough anyway. So he concentrated on his breathing, slowing it down, counting to five, and then starting all over again. Maybe this simple meditation technique would help.

He had closed his eyes and was on his third series of five when he heard the door creak open. He looked up and flinched to see Sherlock looming over him.

Sherlock placed a mug on his nightstand and held something out in his other hand. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” John said. “Don’t fucking sneak up on me like that. Can’t you at least knock?”

“I figured it was safe,” Sherlock said, “as I know that your pistol is in your desk drawer and thus not within reach.”

John put his hand over his heart hoping to get it to stop thumping so rapidly and loudly. “Why are you here, anyway?”

Sherlock handed him two tablets. “The wound in your shoulder is bothering you. Probably because of the weather and the barometric pressure. The ibuprofen is downstairs, and I know you didn’t take any beforehand or bring any upstairs with you.”

John looked at the mug. It was the one he’d used at dinner. When he went to bed, it had lain unwashed in the sink along with the other dishes. He’d been too tired to take care of them then.

He tossed the pills Sherlock had given him into his mouth and put his hands around the mug; the mug was warm and contained a white liquid that he quickly identified as milk.

“You brought me warm milk,” he said, wonder in his voice, before taking a large enough swig with which to swallow the medicine.

“Ibuprofen is best taken with milk or food.”

Sherlock had to know that John already knew all that. “Thank you.” He thought about how kind it was of Sherlock to go out of his way to do this. Every time John wrote him off as a completely selfish git, he would do something like this. But somehow it felt wrong to put those feelings into words.

“Really, John,” Sherlock said reprovingly. “This is pure self-interest, not kindness. If you’re ill, you can’t concentrate properly, and then you’ll be a hindrance, not a help.”

John smiled at the mind-reading. He was used to it by now. As for what he’d said, Sherlock could produce all the rationalizations he liked; John knew better.

Sherlock walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down. John looked at him in astonishment. “What are you—“

“Shh,” Sherlock said. “Your shoulder muscles are clenched in the most awful way. Turn over and I’ll massage them for you.” He knelt near John’s shoulder and leaned forward.

“Sherlock.” John looked at his flatmate, puzzled. Sherlock had never mentioned experience with massage before and he wasn’t normally a touchy feely sort of person. John wondered if there was some other purpose behind this proposed invasion of his personal space.

“John.” Sherlock gave him the same fond look as earlier, tinged with exasperation. “I’m well up on anatomy and I’ve made something of a study of massage, having needed it myself due to an injury as well as for a case.”

John searched Sherlock’s face. Although Sherlock was a talented actor, and not above lying, even to John, if he thought it necessary, John didn’t detect any deception in him now. John rolled his eyes a little – Sherlock’s lips quivered with suppressed mirth at that – and said, “Fine,” adding a little huff to let Sherlock know that he was only doing it to indulge him. Sherlock undoubtedly knew better.

John rolled over onto his stomach, groaning slightly. Sherlock didn’t insist that he remove his t-shirt, and he hoped it wouldn’t feel too rough or provide too much friction against his sore shoulder. He could feel Sherlock’s weight shift, those hands with their long, dexterous fingers finding his scapula and pressing and kneading the muscles surrounding it. John found himself naming them to himself in the order in which Sherlock encountered them: trapezius, deltoid, infraspinatus, teres major and minor, triceps. Sherlock used his knuckles and fingertips to work out the tight knots that had formed. They burned and ached as he did, but it was a good kind of pain – the kind that meant that the muscle was loosening up.

Sherlock paid attention to John’s neck and upper back as well as his shoulders, which John supposed was a good thing, seeing as they were all connected. By the time Sherlock was finished, he felt boneless and limp. Sherlock gently patted the back of John’s neck before getting up, mouthing “Good night,” and leaving the room.

“Thank you,” John whispered to the empty air. He’d been too drowsy and relaxed to thank Sherlock properly before he left. Slowly, he rolled over onto his back and turned his head to the side.

A few minutes later, the thud of the refrigerator door slamming shut and the clatter of beakers and test tubes drifted up the stairs. John listened, foggy brain and all, as Sherlock worked on his latest experiment, but fell asleep after a few minutes. He slept soundly that night and dreamt of long, smooth hands, though the storm continued unabated and lightning lit his room intermittently until dawn. 


End file.
